Angelic Intervention
by gotgoats
Summary: Gibbs has a bad day and considers ending his life. He doesn't, but only after a story from an old homeless man. Slight undertone of spirituality. No religion is pushed or specifically named. Only an angel is mentioned.


Disclaimer: Don't own it.

Note: Thanks to Headbanger Rockstar, my fabulous beta!

Note: This has a spiritual undertone. Please no flames. It's not outright until the very end, no religion pushing, but it's got an undertone. Just so you know.

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Jethro Gibbs walked along the Memorial Bridge, lost deep in thought. The morning had seen the end of the most horrible case he'd ever seen. And he'd seen a lot. How a man had used his family in a fake hostage situation was beyond him. He could understand some of the reasons. Deep financial trouble, the need for press to protect his family in a twisted way to keep them from the bookies he'd failed to pay off. But what he'd never understand was how the man had then ordered the execution of his wife and children.

The team had been only seconds too late. They'd caught the men who had been paid to hold the family, and they in turn ratted out their employer, the supposedly grief-wracked husband and father. True, what he'd paid them was only a small fraction of what he owed the gambling world, but the knowledge that men could be so evil tore at Jethro's heart.

He remembered his daughter smiling and laughing. Her eyes would light up with joy at even the silliest knock-knock joke. When she was sad, it was if her world lost all of its color, and she existed in a sad land of gray until a ray of sunshine could break though her sorrow.

His mind wandered to his wife. His thoughts of their years together were filled with joy and peace, but always ended with an agonizing pain in his heart. Her smile, so much like their daughter's, her deep red hair, almost auburn, that flashed in the sun, and how he loved to wake with her against him, his nose buried in her strawberry-scented hair which clung to the scent from her shower the night before, held his mind as captive now as it always did.

His eyes stayed dry while his soul wept in anguish. He was so tired. He'd never admit it to anyone, but he was tired of chasing criminals and seeming to make no difference. He was tired of going home to an empty house. He was tired of trying to find someone to share his life with. He was tired of life.

In his anguished concentration, he failed to notice the old man who stood up from beside a small fire and began to follow him. The fellow was dressed like the hundreds of homeless men who dotted the park, and to Gibbs, barely merited notice. They'd made their choices, just like he'd made his. It wasn't that he was cruel; it was just that he'd not be able to help them all, so he kept from noticing any.

He sagged against a light post, willing his mind to stop. For years he'd battled with this heartache. He'd tried meditation, he'd tried losing himself in the bourbon he enjoyed in moderation now, and he'd tried to lose himself in women. None of them ever came close to filling the void in his chest.

Jethro remembered the time he'd sat in the silent sanctuary of a church long after the priest had finished listening to everyone's confessions. He'd never understood the need to tell another man his sins, but if others found it right, he'd not question it. That day, as he waited for answers and didn't feel as if he'd gotten any, he decided that God must have forgotten about him.

There was no way God would ever let anyone suffer like this, year after year, without intervening and healing his heart. There was no way God would have let that flea-bitten drug dealer kill his wife and child. There was no way God would let him sit for hours and not answer him. Not the God he'd been taught about as a child, anyway. And if God was different, he had no more energy left to learn.

"I don't know if You're there or not, God." Gibbs looked around him, hoping no one was watching him. He didn't want to be remembered as one of those insane men who wandered bridges in the middle of the night muttering to themselves. Alas, the street was empty.

"If You are, why have you let me suffer like this? Why haven't you stopped the pain?" He slapped his hand against a post. "Why did You let that man kill his family?" His voice began to rage. "Why didn't You stop them? Why does all of this have to happen? Why do so many people die? Car accidents! Suicide! Cancer! Murder! Terrorism! What are You doing? Why do You let all of this happen?" He sank to his knees, feeling the weight of his self-inflicted guilt.

"I'm tired. I'm tired of fighting, of not making progress." Jethro was quiet for a moment. "I'm tired of missing my girls, and of feeling like a failure. I failed them when they died, and I fail almost every day. There are still criminals, there are still terrorists, and there is so much wrong, that we can't fix it. So much hate that people are even turning against their families." He stood and looked over the edge of the wall.

"So, I guess this is goodbye."

"I've had days like that, too." Gibbs whirled around, reaching for his gun that wasn't there. He'd left it at home, not intending to have any further use for it.

"Days with one too many battles, one to many memories, and one too many heartaches." A man with gnarled hands and a face weathered from exposure gazed on him with a compassion that made the hardened Marine soften a bit.

"I don't think you've had a day quite like mine."

"Maybe not, but you're not the only one who's lost." The man didn't seem to try to be insulting, but his comment still hurt Gibbs on a level he thought he'd closed off.

"I don't know what you're getting at, old man, but here's my wallet. I won't be needing it. Now get lost." Gibbs sounded defeated rather than angry.

"I don't want your wallet."

Gibbs glared at the calm old man. The stranger didn't move or shy away. Gibbs held onto the post as he began to climb onto the ledge of the bridge.

"I don't want your wallet."

"You already said that. So why don't you leave so I can do this in peace? I don't want to go out arguing with somebody."

"Can I tell you a story?"

"Tell me a story?" Gibbs mocked him. "I'm standing here, ready to jump, and you want to tell me a story?"

"It seems a better alternative to you jumping."

"Who says I won't?"

"You won't while I'm here." The old man shrugged. "So I'll stand here until you get tired of waiting for me to leave if I have to."

"Fine." Gibbs hopped down. "What's your story?"

"There was a boy, born in a small town, where he was picked on and beaten up by the in crowd. He was embarrassed that he wasn't stronger or faster, but wouldn't admit it. He acted angry every time his dad came to his rescue, and yet was secretly happy that he was safe."

"Sounds like a pretty tormented kid."

"He was. And when tragedy struck, and his mother, who he loved more than anything died, he was lost." The old man paused. "Life continued for him, and he and his dad grew farther and farther apart. All they wanted was to be close, but they were so much alike that they couldn't understand one another."

"How does that happen? Same thing happened with Jack and I. I wanted nothing more than for him to understand me. Never happened, though."

"They had expectations for one another that neither could fulfill. The boy expected his father to understand his need to protect himself, and to teach him to do it. He thought his father would understand his need to get away and go anywhere but there. And his father wanted to keep his son safe at any costs. He didn't want to see his boy suffer any more. He didn't want his son to have a hard life, or to have any more trials.

"Because they were both fighting so hard for the opposite things, or so it seemed, that they fought. The son thought that leaving would help him be safe and not hurt anymore. He thought running was the best option. He couldn't see his father's view, and didn't know how to ask him. His father didn't understand his need to leave, and didn't know how to express his desires to the young man.

"Time and again they were so close to understanding one another, but they always lost control of their tempers before they reached understanding."

"What happened?" Gibbs felt like he was listening to his own life. He hoped this young man had better luck communicating with his dad.

"Not much changed. The young man left home. He chose his career, and he was good at it. He married, had a child, and then life changed. His family was murdered."

Gibbs eyes flew wide open. His heart beat faster, and he felt ill. He knew how this poor kid felt. And it wasn't a good feeling.

"What did he do then? My family died, and it was as if my world ended."

"That's how it is for everyone who faces that loss. Their worlds are at an end, and they need to rebuild their lives." The old man shrugged. "Some people are successful; others aren't. This poor young man wandered for years. In and out of anger and blame. In and out of relationships. He grew distant to everyone he knew, as if that would keep people safe." A glance at Gibbs told him that the agent was listening to every word, even if he appeared stony faced.

"He devoted himself to his job. He was a detective. More importantly, he worked homicide."

"Why did he choose that? I mean, why want to work with death every day? I mean, I do it, but I started out with non-violent crimes. And I was an assassin. I didn't choose to work with death. I just kept getting promoted and went with it."

"The same thing happened to this young man. He had natural leadership qualities, and they were an asset to his department. Men like him are few and far between." Gibbs shot him a questioning glance.

"He's hardened by his life, and yet he's sympathetic and understanding to victims. He can lead by being rough while teaching by being gentle. And he doesn't understand the difference his life makes."

"Does his life make a difference?" Gibbs sighed and leaned back against the cement. "I wish mine did. Sometimes I think it does, but then days like this come along, and I realize how futile my life really is."

"This man had the same struggles." The older man sighed. "Some days, he was on top of the world. He'd catch a killer, and know that he'd done his job, and done it well. Sometimes he was even able to prevent another murder, and he'd feel as though he were king of the world."

"And then on other days, he'd feel like the worst failure on earth?" Gibbs closed his eyes, swallowing hard.

"Yes. Some days, his heart would break because of all the pain around him. However, if he only remembered the good he'd done, he wouldn't have so many rough days."

"What good did he do? I mean, he'd catch killers, and then there'd be another the next day."

"While that is true, he failed to realize that because he'd cared for people along the way, that he kept a little girl from being killed by her daddy when she recognized his voice from a recording. He didn't realize that by helping one man who had gotten out of a gang to reach out to others trying to leave that he stopped a gang-war that would have claimed over fifty young lives, some of them innocents who would have been watching TV in their homes after school."

"How could he know all of that?"

"He couldn't. He never saw the far reaches of his actions. He never saw the little boy with a tree house decide to become a soldier like his daddy. He never saw the young man whose mother had been helped before his birth go on to become a respected member of his community. He never saw a little boy go into law enforcement because of a night spent working side by side with a man who cared."

"So another kid became a cop. Did it really make a difference?"  
"Yes." The old man smiled. "That boy went on to become a hero. He would go on to give his life saving his partner and a room full of hostages. Among the hostages would be a future president. If he hadn't gone into police work, that special girl would have died that day."

"A woman president, huh?"

"Yes. America will be ready for one, and then more will follow." Gibbs grunted. He thought it was about time. Most women he knew didn't get pushed as easily as men. Strong willed women were called all sorts of names, but he liked having one or two on his side. They made good decisions and stuck to their guns, finances and politics be damned.

"So you're telling me that if I off myself, that I'm gonna end some great works?"

"Well, if you end your life today, what do you think will happen to the lives you're supposed to touch tomorrow?"

"Someone else can help them."

"Sure, someone else could. But if someone else helps them, the outcome will be different. Not everyone thinks like you, or does the things you do."

"What would change if the young man from your story committed suicide?"  
"He did." The old man wiped a tear from his eye. "He didn't think he was worth anything, and he couldn't see past the pain of his day, so he took his life one evening."

Gibbs felt himself swallow hard. He'd not expected that answer. It seemed to shock him somewhere deep inside.

"What happened?" Gibbs voice was quiet.

"He was supposed to answer a call out the next morning. He wasn't alive to go." The story teller shrugged. "As a result, the boy he was supposed to save still lived, but he received no guidance when he was in protective custody. He didn't have anyone show him that he could change his life or make better decisions. In the end, rather than become the ambassador to Iran known for averting a war, he became an arms dealer. He alone would be responsible for hundreds of deaths, and all because his father was no good politician who was on the take and physically violent. No one showed him the way."

"No one? The man you're telling me about would have stopped all of that? How? How can one man make such a difference? How can one man change a life?"

"One man is all it takes to show love and care to another. The man I'm telling you about used his life experiences to interact with people. He used the hurt and the joy, often teaching and telling how he found his joy. His joys were simple. His pains were numerous, but he'd found peace until his cares became too great, and one night, he was overwhelmed.

"If he'd only stayed around one more day, he would have met someone. A woman would come into his life, and he'd find peace and joy in her arms. He'd have been able to talk to her, and his woes would have never overwhelmed him like that again."

"So what do I do?" Gibbs question was barely heard.

"What do you think you should do?"

"Go home. Sand my boat, and wait for tomorrow."

"I think that's a good plan. Suicide isn't a good answer. It takes care of problems for you, but creates problems for everyone else."

"Didn't think of it that way. I just wanted the pain to stop."

"And your pain would have. But you'd miss out on all of your tomorrows."

"Hey, who knows?" Gibbs smirked as he stood. "Maybe I'll end up influencing the world one day."

"Maybe you will." The man stood, his knees creaking. "Thanks for listening."

"Thanks for talking." With a nod, Gibbs walked away, looking back only once. He saw the old man lift a hand to wave. As he turned around, he missed the homeless, dirty man change into a brilliant being surrounded by light. He vanished a moment later, pleased that the human placed in his care was safe for now.

He followed Gibbs silently as the silver-haired man trotted down his basement stairs and picked up his sanding block. As Gibbs began to think through the conversation, he wondered what became of some of the kids he'd helped over the years. He chuckled as he had the sudden thought that perhaps the story had been about him. He laughed out loud, knowing how silly that idea was.

After all, he listened to what was said, and knew that his permanent solution to his temporary overload wasn't any way to go. He'd sanded for nearly an hour before he decided to write down a new rule.

#52… Don't make emotional decisions. Always wait for tomorrow.


End file.
